Making her way through the staging area for a parade
in downtown Bogotá, Helena pauses to take in the
costumed street performers and stilt-walkers. Though the
geographical distance is not great, the festive disorder is
worlds away from the small Colombian town where she
grew up – and where, at age 14, she made the decision that
nearly cost her life.

‘If Colombian society is opposed to this conflict
and the armed groups, why don’t they
open the doors, open the opportunities
to people who demobilize?’

‘I joined the FARC in a rage,’ she says, referring to the
Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, Latin America’s
longest-standing rebel army. ‘I wanted to get revenge on
the people who killed my father.’

If she achieved her mission, she doesn’t say. Instead, she
describes how, one year after joining, she was shot in the
back in a skirmish with the Colombian Armed Forces. After
a life-saving operation, she was transported to Bogotá –
where her long journey into civil society began.

It hasn’t been easy. Apart from learning to walk again
and the emotional scars of war, Helena has seen her
mother only twice in three years, and has not been able
to return home at all. But with resilience, patience and
hard work she’s managed to finish high school, and will
soon graduate from technical school with a certificate as a
nurse’s assistant.

It’s a remarkable success story. One would think Helena
would be quick to share it with others. But she shakes her
head. Apart from her therapy group and her foster family,
she’s only told one close friend about her past. ‘Here,’ she
says, casting a glance over her shoulder, ‘they reject you for
having been in an armed group.’

The road to integration

A few blocks away, on the ninth floor of a nondescript
skyscraper, are the offices of the Programme for
Humanitarian Attention for Demobilized People (PAHD).
PAHD is charged with convincing illegal combatants
– whether leftist guerrillas or notorious rightwing paramilitaries
– to turn over their weapons in exchange for a
one-time judicial pardon (or lightened sentence, depending
on the crimes committed), a few months of secure room
and board and, in many cases, several thousand dollars. The
programme took off under former President Alvaro Uribe’s
‘Plan for Democratic Security’ – soft words for an all-out
assault on FARC forces that reduced their number from
nearly 20,000 to 8,000 between 2002 and 2010. ‘The idea is to take down the enemy,’ explains a civilian
spokesperson, ‘but without firing a shot.’

A stolen childhood: for those recruited into the
FARC’s rebel army, returning to civilian life is
a new challenge. This photo of a young girl
holding a weapon was found on the body
of a rebel killed in combat in 2008.
Reuters/National Police/ Handout

Among their tactics are television commercials and radio
ads – even a bag of soccer balls signed by the Colombian
national team, to be dropped by helicopter into the jungle,
inviting the guerrillas to leave the conflict and play.

Apparently, the propaganda is working. PAHD claims
some 50,000 demobilizations since 2002, including more
than 3,000 children.

As for what happens after the soldiers turn in their guns,
the spokesperson says that the adults get turned over to the
High Council for Reintegration, and children are left in the
hands of the Colombian Institute of Family Welfare (ICBF).

Carlos Osorio can’t really explain why he joined the
FARC eight years ago at the age of 13. It had something to
do with typical adolescent restlessness and, he admits, ‘with
the curiosity of holding a gun’. But after three years in the
jungle, he knew he was ready to leave. He and a trusted
comrade started considering their options. ‘We would listen secretly to the radio,’ he says. ‘We heard
the ads, former comrades telling us to demobilize, that the
government would help us.’

Since deserting could mean execution if they were caught
and execution for their families if they weren’t, they staged
their own capture. Sent into town for an operation, they
ditched their weapons and fatigues, called up a friend whose
brother was a police officer, arranged a meeting spot and
prayed that the government radio ads weren’t a ploy.

They weren’t. Carlos’s friend, who was over 18, was
brought to the base for interrogation. Carlos, as a minor,
could not legally be interrogated, but was kept in a holding
cell for three weeks while they verified his age. From there
he was turned over to ICBF in Bogotá.

Carlos knows he won’t rejoin
the FARC, but when asked if
he’s in danger of falling into
a life of crime, he says ‘claro’
– obviously

It didn’t go well. For two years, he bounced between
group homes and foster homes, sometimes attending high school
classes, sometimes trying a technical college.
‘I just wanted to be home,’ he says. ‘I thought about my
family all the time.’

On his 18th birthday, with few academic or technical
skills and even fewer prospects for employment, Carlos
completed the ICBF programme and was given the first
instalment of his government reparation – $300 deposited
into his bank account. He celebrated with some friends,
caught a bus to Medellín to visit his mother for a month
and then returned to Bogotá.

That was three years ago. The government stopped
depositing money into his account recently and, after a few
frustrating visits to different offices, he’s given up trying to
find out why. Now he’s living with an uncle, attempting to
work his way into the music scene, and vaguely looking for
a job. He confesses he has stopped working on his highschool
degree. He knows he won’t rejoin the FARC, but
when asked if he’s in danger of falling into a life of crime, he
says ‘claro’ – obviously. And then he is silent. It seems, for the moment, that
Carlos is running out of options.

Resilience and opportunity

For seven years, Jimenez Pinzon has tried to help former
child soldiers work their way back into society, including
co-ordinating one of the ICBF group homes. (Today,
these group homes have been abandoned in Bogotá, and
foster families take in the young people instead.)
Though she credits ICBF for providing security and meeting basic
needs, she feels the government’s approach is overprotective,
creating too much of a victim mentality among teenagers.
Recently she’s begun working with a non-profit called Taller
de Vida (Workshop of Life), which draws on theories like
Augusto Boal’s theatre of the oppressed to help teenagers
tap into their own resilience and develop a sense of empowerment.

Though she sees positive results – Helena, for example,
has been with the programme since she came to Bogotá
– she worries that, no matter how empowered the kids
become, the stigma of having been with an armed group
will be too much to overcome.

A recent survey of 1,070 Colombian businesses by the
Office of International Immigration found that 96 per cent
were not actively participating in government-sponsored
efforts to create jobs for demobilized soldiers – and over 40
per cent didn’t support the idea at all. She notes that, even
in the non-profit world, local agencies tend to shy away from
child soldiers – which may explain why all Taller de Vida’s
funding comes from abroad.

‘You have to hide who you really are,’
confirms Alejandra Castro, who joined the
FARC at the age of 11 to escape an abusive
home life. She was 15 when the police
captured her

‘You have to hide who you really are,’ confirms Alejandra
Castro, who joined the FARC at the age of 11 to escape an
abusive home life. She was 15 when the police captured her.
Highly articulate and sharply intelligent, Alejandra is now
24. She graduated from high school and earned a nursing
degree. She’s also become something of a spokesperson for
child soldiers. Inspired by Taller de Vida, she organized a
theatre collective and travelled the country to work with
young people who might be vulnerable to joining the
FARC. She’s even spoken in front of the United Nations in
New York.

But when she did her clinical placement for nursing
school she didn’t mention her history. ‘That clinic had
thrown out three students in the past when they learned
they’d belonged to armed groups. So I said nothing – which
is sad. If Colombian society is opposed to this conflict and
the armed groups, why don’t they open the doors, open the
opportunities to people who demobilize?’

The country’s new president, Juan Manuel Santos, seems
inclined to seek dialogue with the FARC. At the same
time, the group continues its guerrilla campaign – and new
criminal gangs are flourishing across the country. Despite
billions in US military aid, the lucrative drug trade is
booming, providing plenty of fuel for the conflict.

What is clear is that the nation’s future – like the futures
of Helena, Carlos and Alejandra – depends on more than
just the willingness of armed groups to turn in their
weapons. If they are to put the conflict behind them, the
Colombian people must be willing to open their arms to
the ex-child soldiers.

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